


Dovecage

by MoonGoddex



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Body Image, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Gen, Gift Fic, Guilty Draco Malfoy, Moderately Canon Compliant, POV Draco Malfoy, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Sexism, Wizarding Wars (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:21:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27761434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonGoddex/pseuds/MoonGoddex
Summary: Draco Malfoy knew, almost from birth, what her place in the world was.It was drummed into her, a constant rhythm of praise and scolding; she was the best of the best - pedigree, the eldest child of a noble family and should behave as such.--If Draco was born a girl, how much of her story would change? And how much would stay the same?
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17
Collections: Heart Attack Exchange 2020





	1. Childhood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kitsunerei88](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsunerei88/gifts).



> I've left Draco's name as Draco; if you have a preferred name for fem!Draco, please absolutely feel free to use a word replacer for this fic! I figure since it's unique, though, it could swing either way.

Draco Malfoy knew, almost from birth, what her place in the world was.

It was drummed into her, a constant rhythm of praise and scolding; she was the best of the best - pedigree, the eldest child of a noble family and should behave as such.

She was also a daughter when they had really wanted a son, but Narcissa's body did not co-operate in producing another heir.  
(Yet. It was always, 'yet', always the hope that one day, they may have a son. Draco couldn't continue the family name, and while it was still expected of her to have a child and continue the bloodline, the _name_ was every bit as precious to Purebloods, maintaining their status as part of Sacred Twenty-Eight.)  
(It's why she always considered herself an 'eldest' child, and not an 'only' child - preparing for what she felt was inevitable. What she was assured would happen as soon as possible.)

Draco had also been taught from as soon as she could understand that there were _bad_ people in the world; people who weren't as well-bred as she was, who sullied the magical world. People who joined magical society with no understanding of its culture, nuance, no respect for the long-standing family lines. Who refused to see the risk of interbreeding with Muggles; the potential loss of magic, producing Squibs, and wiping out their culture entirely.  
Worse yet were those who did come from magical families, but didn't agree that it was a problem.  
But she knew better. She listened dutifully, asked questions that made her parents pet her hair, and tell her she was a clever thing. And why would they lie to her?

\--

Narcissa taught her daughter a lot of things. How to carry a polite conversation even when your company is a terrible bore. How to smile and nod and not take a single word of what was said seriously. Table manners, cutlery etiquette, how to curtsy and smile and look a perfect little lady.  
She taught her that magic was the most important thing she'd ever learn.

But, in quiet moments, just the two of them, she let Draco in on a little secret.  
"Your magic might not always be there for you when you need it, and since you can't use it freely yet, you need an alternative. If you find yourself in a situation with someone who scares you, you must know how to use a blade."  
It was crude; almost Muggle-ish in its barbarity.  
But it was necessary, she was assured; wand first, but always be able to use a backup if magic is unavailable.

\--

Lucius spoiled her rotten.  
She got anything she asked for, never wanted for anything too long. She was his princess, pride and joy.  
Not that he was well equipped to deal with anything emotional. If something upset her, no matter how small, if it couldn't be fixed with a present or a strongly worded letter to someone who was in a position to fix it, then it became Narcissa's job.  
Well, Draco was fine with that. It was a lesson. Unbecoming of a lady to trouble the men in her life with her problems, and the sooner she internalised that, the better equipped she'd be to deal with adult life.

Besides, it wasn't like she often had much to upset her. She had a life of luxury, a family that adored her.  
Lucius' insistence that they would have another child wasn't all bad, really. Having a sibling might be nice. Just so long as she kept getting the love and affection she already got - they wouldn't forget about her as soon as they had a boy, surely?  
She told herself that.

\--

"You're such a pretty thing, you'll make a wonderful wife some day," was often the first thing people said to her.  
No matter what else she did, or said, it was always her looks. Her ability to make some future potential wizard happy. To produce offspring, to further the bloodline.  
She didn't realise she resented it at first, but when she did, she went direct to her mother with her gripes, expecting sympathy. Understanding.  
She didn't quite get what she'd hoped for.

"It is our duty as Pureblood witches, Draco, we can't change that."

"But why can't we be recognised for our other talents, too? I'm good on a broom. I can read better than Pansy or Blaise."

Narcissa smiled sweetly at her daughter and patted her on the cheek.  
"Draco, my love, if the men realise we're just as good as them in every way - if not better - then they won't know what to do with themselves. Their egos may shatter. It's another of our duties; do the heavy lifting work, and let them take the credit for it so they don't realise they're hopeless. Means we get to keep most of the power, too, without them realising - they're so busy underestimating us that they never see past their own nose to catch us running the show."

It was underhanded, of course, which was why Draco understood immediately.  
So she'd be pretty. She'd prepare to be a perfect wife. She'd become a mother some day. Those were all things she wanted, anyway, but--  
She'd maintain that facade - because her mother was right.  
As long as she kept it up, she'd hold all the cards.

\--

The shadow of the Dark Lord's defeat hung over her head her whole life.  
She knew what her parents had told her; both their point of view and what the 'other side' was likely to tell her happened once she attended Hogwarts.  
"You can't let them know you know the truth. They'll try to suppress it. It's not gossip, it's not the kind of secret you share with people who don't already know - it's a serious thing. They're trying to silence us; we need to keep quiet, and pretend we never agreed with him in the first place; it's the only way to keep our place in current society. Do you understand? "  
She thought she did.

There were only a few women in his ranks. Plenty of sympathisers, of course, but the Death Eaters? Largely a male affair.  
Her father always spoke about what would happen if he returned. He swore he'd go right back to him, beg his forgiveness - but admitted that wasn't likely to happen. He was dead - and those that insisted he was still alive, well, they were largely trapped in Azkaban now.  
Best not to dwell on the what-ifs.

Draco did, though, in the privacy of her own mind.  
She thought she'd like to be as devoted as her Aunt Bella. The only woman in the ranks quite so highly regarded as the rest - maybe she could do the same, fight by her father's side for the truth, to restore Wizarding society to the way Salazar Slytherin envisioned. A utopia for her family, her friends, her loved ones.  
They were nice dreams. She liked the idea of being a heroine.


	2. Hogwarts

Before first year, Lucius had brought her to Diagon Alley, got her kitted out in the finest clothes Hogwarts would allow. A downgrade from what she was used to wearing, but he'd explained, "They impose some rules to coddle the feelings of the poor Wizards, and the Mudbloods. Trying to pretend everyone's equal. Don't worry about it; I won't let anyone mistake you for anything but a Malfoy."

There was a boy there. A quiet sort, but she introduced herself, tried to be polite. He might be a Pureblood she hadn't met yet; she knew they existed. Her mother had always taught her it was best to start off polite and save rudeness for later, once they'd earned it, because it was more difficult -- and mortifying -- to plead for forgiveness from someone you needed further down the line than it was to cut ties with someone who'd outlived their usefulness. Never burn a bridge until you've well and truly crossed it.

She didn't get a name, but that was fine; she'd be seeing plenty of him at Hogwarts, anyway.

It wasn't until the train that she realised who he was. Now _that_ was an opportunity.  
Lucius was convinced Potter was a Dark Wizard, somehow; no way he could have taken down the Dark Lord as an infant without something powerful behind him. Even if it was pure luck, though; having him on their side? That was power. People would fall over themselves to grovel at his feet, she already knew that, and having him on her right side would prove to the rest of the world without a doubt that her family was telling the truth about being reformed.  
('Truth' was a fun concept, wasn't it?)

Her eyes gleamed with possibility, an extended hand, a fortunate future for both of them--  
So when his rejection hit her, she was staggered for a moment. She'd never really felt that before. Not from a peer; perhaps, in some small ways, from her father, but he didn't mean to, he loved her -- _everyone_ loved her, so why didn't Potter want to be her _friend_?

Fine.  
Whatever.  
She didn't need him, especially not with him waltzing into Gryffindor, thinking he was better than everyone else. He'd lit the match first, and she had no inclination to put out his fires for him.

\--

Overall, it was tolerable in Hogwarts, even at its worst. Pansy had been her best friend growing up, and that continued, of course, gave some comfort, ensured she was never lonely.  
Crabbe, and Goyle, too; her parents were friendly with their parents, so it seemed like a no-brainer. They were free body guards, and if she was sweet to them from time to time, kept them on the hook, letting them think maybe, possibly-  
Well. If she did that, she could get away with a lot of other things.

Her parents had ideas, of course. Families of acceptable blood purity, ones that would let her continue the bloodline in a way they'd tolerate -- even if the children weren't Malfoy by name, they would at least by Malfoy by ancestry.  
Frankly, none of the offers appealed yet. She was only 11; she didn't much want to think too hard about marrying and starting a family, not yet -- but she kept sweet with every boy that had half a chance. Didn't want to have to resort to marrying a half-blood and sullying it.

\--

Hermione Granger was a thorn in Draco Malfoy's side. She decided this very early on; always one-upping her in tests, always showing off, clever little know it all.  
See, Draco had to be careful; if she seemed too smart, there was every chance the boys would be wary, afraid she'd outsmart them and ruin any future chance with them. If she didn't try hard enough, though, she wouldn't leave school with good qualifications. She'd cope, of course; being a Malfoy paved a lot of roads, and whoever she married would afford her additional social leverage.  
But it was always her goal to be able to stand on her own two feet if need be.

So she had to battle with herself, had to balance what was important. Besting this Mudblood, proving she was better in every department as a matter of pride and proving Purebloods were superior in every regard, while securing the chance at independence? Or securing a comfortable future by not beating every other boy in her year?  
It was a tightrope act, one that consumed more of her waking thoughts than she was willing to confess to.

Granger did provide a valuable service, though, despite this.  
She was a litmus test. If Granger was able to get away with something, Draco knew she could, and easily. If she couldn't, well...  
Draco kept a very close eye.

\--

She taunted Potter. Taunted him into charging, like a wild bull. It was so easy. Easier than she'd thought, easier than her mother had always told her it would be. Easy to make him act out; and easy to have it backfire on her just the same.

She wanted to scream when she heard he'd managed to get onto the Quidditch team in first year. Why should he get special treatment for breaking the rules? Why couldn't she be afforded that too?  
Worse, when she caught him breaking the _law_ and tried to report him for that, and she got sent into the forest for her efforts, alone with him.  
Well, she brought her wand for that.  
She brought her knife, too.  
Not that it proved much use when faced with... Whatever they saw, feasting on a dead unicorn. She didn't think, just ran, as fast as her legs were capable of carrying her.

If he was upset that she left him, then that was on him.  
It was his duty to protect her, as the man of the party. Had he not been taught how to treat a lady with those wretched Muggles that raised him?  
Obviously not. What else was she to expect from them?

\--

It was a fine needle to thread.

Some days, she'd make herself up pretty, she'd pretend like she knew nothing, just a sweet face and a cruel tongue to those outside her circle.  
Some days, she'd test the limits. Could she pursue her interest in Quidditch without losing her advantage, her status? Or would it elevate it? She kept a keen eye on the other houses, not for approval, but to see how the Slytherins reacted to their choices.  
The other houses had women on their team, of course. Slytherin's team had a few, historically, but much like the Death Eaters, it was a fairly male dominated affair. She listened to conversations with apparent indifference, feigning boredom, and cataloguing every passing comment, a mental data map of just how others would perceive her if she pursued it.

It was the biggest lie the Malfoys lived. _'Malfoys do not care what others say about them'_ , that was the impression they gave the rest of the world, loud and proud and clear.  
But of course, they did. They cared, because others' perceptions can modify how much power one has; they cared enough to maintain their status, their comfortable living.  
Perhaps the real truth was that Malfoys do not _respect_ others' opinions about them.

Eventually, she pushed for it. Made a case for it; that athleticism was a good trait, that the exercise would be good for maintaining her health and her figure, and if she got injured, Pomfrey was duty-bound to ensure it didn't mar her features  
And, well, her father didn't let anything happen by halves. If his daughter was going to be the first girl on the Slytherin team, she was going to do it in style. The Nimbus 2001, the brand new kit, fitted perfectly to her- she looked _classy_ , and that wasn't easy when playing such a rough sport.

She got away with it, to a degree. The Slytherins didn't give her any grief for joining, though they did give her grief for losing to Potter.  
She snapped at them. Turned their anger towards him, blamed him, and if they doubted her then they weren't inclined to voice those doubts to her face.

\--

After she caught wind that Gryffindors suspected her of being the heir, she took it as a compliment, and not the insult he meant it to be.  
It would make sense. She was powerful, pure, pretty-- perfect. She knew this about herself.  
Slytherin would have favoured her. She belonged to the house in every conceivable way.  
She fantasised, sometimes, about how helpful she could be if only she did know the identity of the true heir. The wealth, power, fortune that would follow. The admiration from her peers. Would they be around her age? Maybe if they were a man, she could convince him to marry her. Maybe then, Lucius wouldn't be so upset about her losing the family name. Maybe having an heir of her own, continuing the bloodline, maybe that would be enough to secure the Malfoy name through 'nee' alone. Notoriety.

Of course, she found out eventually.  
Her dad hadn't thought to trust her with that information. He'd held the Dark Lord's journal in his own two hands and hadn't even thought to clue his own daughter in on it.

It felt like a slap; or at least, she imagined so.  
One thing her father didn't do was raise his hands.

\--

Summers were sweet.  
She'd never much cared for any particular season as a child; every one had its ups and downs, and tutors visited the manor year-round. In retrospect, it was likely to keep her out from under her parents' feet; but since she was gone most of the year at Hogwarts, they were a little less inclined to send her away for much when she did return home.

It was a kind of freedom she wasn't used to. She always woke early, a habit far too deeply entrenched to break in the few months she got away from school.  
She'd read, often. She'd regularly visit with Pansy, occasionally seeing other friends for a day or so.

Her mother spent a lot of time with her. They'd sit in the conservatory, chatting idly, occasionally veering into a deeper topic -- though some unspoken rule dictated they switch to something safer if her father joined them. She didn't question it. It was just the way of the world, wasn't it? Never bring the men down with your own troubles.

She got to travel, usually, too -- they'd select a new destination to explore for a week, then, to unwind after the excitement of sightseeing, they'd visit the south of France as a family, a holiday home hidden away not five minutes walk from a beautiful secluded beach.  
There, she felt at peace.  
She didn't have to worry so much. Nobody was watching her as she dipped her toes in the ocean; nobody was there to care if her hair was sitting perfectly, or if her outfit looked immaculate. Nobody knew her name. Nobody knew the baggage of her ancestry, the expectations for her future.  
It was just her and the waves, the warm sand, the unforgiving sun threatening to pinken her pale skin even in the face of sunscreen charms.

At school, and at home, she felt like she had to be an adult already.  
But here; here, she could be thirteen. She could be a teenager on a beach and she could breathe easily.

\--

There were rumbles of unrest before she boarded the Hogwarts Express that year.

Black's Azkaban breakout was of great interest to her father, and of course she listened, even when he tried to send her out the room. Him not wanting her to hear only made it more interesting.

"Well, we know what your cousin did."

"Don't associate him with me, Lucius. He was always a strange one."

"You still have no clue on his motivations?"

She laughed. "If I did, do you really think I wouldn't have leveraged that information at some point?"

Draco figured out what had happened through eavesdropping sessions like that, piece by piece til the puzzle wasn't quite complete, but she still figured out what the final picture was meant to look like.  
It was delightful; forbidden knowledge was one of her favourite things.

Dangling it over Potter's head like a cloud was almost the most engaging sport of hers that year-- but it ended up falling far behind haunting him, posing as a Dementor; and then by using her father's rage to hit him where it hurt with that damned beast, playing up the injury, milking the sympathy for all it was worth.

It was a delight right up until Granger struck her.  
The nerve of it! Her rage bubbled in her chest, but she didn't fight back, didn't so much as say a word as her cheek stung red.  
She didn't figure out why until later.

It was the nerve that impressed her. Most of _her_ kind bowed and broke in the face of Draco's insults, or complained about it behind her back. They never dared to fight back.  
Granger had been the first to snap.

It was... Admirable.

An admiration she quickly and quietly boxed away, locked up tight. Her parents would lose their minds if they got a hint of her having the slightest shred of respect for a Mudblood.

\--

She'd been warned to lay low, keep safe and stay quiet after the Quidditch match.  
And she could have stayed safe in the comfort of her luxurious tent, she absolutely could have.  
But she wanted to witness the carnage. To see what her father was capable of.  
To help, if at all possible.

Teasing the Gryffindors was just a cherry on top of the delicious sundae, really; the real treat was seeing her father, clearly in his element.

"Big things are coming, my dear sweet girl," he'd promised. "Our standing in the world will be recognised properly again."  
It was thrilling.  
Of course she wanted to be at the forefront.

She felt more powerful than ever that year. Her father was working in the background on projects she wasn't wholly privy to, but she was aware that he was bringing her into a new era where things would be better. Where she wouldn't have to share space, precious resources with those who didn't appreciate the Wizarding world as deeply as she did.

It almost didn't matter that _Potter_ got to be in the Triwizard Tournament. It didn't matter, but it didn't stop her from feeding into the media machine. Her mother gave her tips, by letter; and Merlin did it pay off. Skeeter ate out the palm of her hand, always so sweet, so willing to help Draco as long as Draco helped her.  
She didn't mistake it for genuine kindness for a second. She wasn't stupid. But it worked for both of them; Skeeter got her scoops, and Draco got to exact her revenge, to press at the Gryffindor's soft tissue, dig into their nerves and make them dance from afar.

If adulthood presented more opportunities like that, she'd be more than happy to take them.

\--

Her parents agreed to let her go to the Yule Ball with Blaise. He wasn't officially on the Pureblood registry, but they knew his pedigree was exceptional, with only a few outliers who had been appropriately purged from the tree.

It had taken her five hours to get ready, and that was with the help of younger Slytherins who didn't have an invite. Not a hair was out of place, not a ruffle askew on her blue-grey dress.

Blaise, of course, was as much of an accessory as her handbag, but he looked fantastic too -- not that she gave him too many compliments. That was his job, to flatter her, and he did it well.

She envisioned herself doing this as an adult. She wanted to feel this much like royalty every day, but special nights like this would satisfy her cravings until she had ample opportunity to live the high life.

\--

The night the Dark Lord returned, she was too caught up in the drama of the final Task, joking with her friends, placing bets on Potter getting injured -- maybe worse.

Everyone forgot about the bets when he came back, clutching Cedric's limp body.

There was a shock that rippled through the Slytherins, one she hadn't seen before. They went still, silent, many of them looking to her -- waiting on her reaction to know how they should respond.

She sent off an owl that night, asking as casually as possible how her father was.  
The response was one word, on a thin sliver of paper.

"Fantastic."

\--

The whole summer, her father spoke of how good things were going to be. How the natural order of the world was going to be restored.  
This is what he'd been waiting for this whole time. All the face-saving, all the "Of course he's dead, he had me under the Imperius, very glad to be rid of it" -- he'd be allowed to drop it, very soon. The excitement emanating from him was palpable.  
Infectious.

Becoming a prefect just sealed the deal.  
She had power, then, more tangible than it had ever been, concentrated in that little badge she wore proudly on her robes. It felt right, natural.  
And Potter not getting the same? Granger, and Weasley being picked over him?  
It was delightful -- though it did mean she was, technically a peer of Granger's.

(Well; she always knew that, much as she tried to enforce distance between them. Tried to make sure she knew that Purebloods were inherently _better_ , because she somehow still didn't have that in her skull -- strange, for how smart she was.)

And Umbridge's arrival! It felt like it was falling into place for her. Cloying as Umbridge was, she understood how things ought to be. She didn't pander to the Gryffindors' sense of moral righteousness, she knew the truth, she knew their real place in society.  
The whole year was an up and up and up swing arcing to the top and she didn't think there was a way to come back down- how could there be? Everything was going so _right_ \--

So right, until it went so wrong.


	3. War

It was Potter's fault. It had to be. Her father wasn't so sloppy as to get caught, he was _clever_. He was so good, so talented, so powerful.  
What right did they have to throw him into Azkaban? Were they really maintaining this fiction, this party line that the Death Eaters were the pox on society and not the cure?  
She seethed and shook and screamed.

Just because Potter went and got himself born to traitor scum and a Mudblood, and they got themselves killed. Tragic, boo hoo. That didn't mean he had any right to ruin _her_ life, _her_ family.

She knew then that she'd do anything for revenge. To set things right.  
She knew she had to pick up where her father left off.

So when word trickled through that someone had to kill that old oaf, she debased herself so far as to beg. The Dark Lord was eyeing up Nott, wanting him to show his loyalty, and he had much the same motivation; had to prove he was wiling to make sacrifices if he wanted the Dark Lord to set his father free.  
" _Well,_ " Draco thought, " _Fuck him._ "  
She wanted to be helpful. She wanted to prove her worth.  
She wanted her mother to stop looking quite so worn, to keep her from sitting awake all night in the parlour with endless cups of tea and books she flicked through but never read.  
She wanted to save her dad.

The Dark Lord didn't take her seriously at first.  
"You're such a young thing," he'd breathed out, and Merlin, he looked frail, but he still terrified her. On instinct, her hand twitched for her pocket. Magic wouldn't work, not for him- but would her knife even serve her?  
No. She'd be stabbing herself just as much him if she dared to try.

"I'm two months older than Theodore Nott," she'd countered, tacking on, "My Lord," politeness as an afterthought.

"That is quite true." He swept her hair from her shoulder and his hand was so cold. "The ruthlessness in your eyes; reminds me of your aunt. But there's fear there, too. Fear has no place in Death Eaters, Draco, you understand this?"

"I won't deny that I'm afraid, but I maintain that I'm far more determined and furious with the plague in my school than I am scared of consequences. Besides; won't you protect my family if I do this for you?"

His smile made her skin crawl, but she didn't flinch, because terrifying as he was, she still respected him. "Of course I will, my sweet girl. Of course. Your father always so loyal, too... And your mother, never a Death Eater, but always there whenever we needed her."  
He thought for a few moments, then nodded.  
"Then you'll take the Mark."

She did wince, then, but didn't argue; didn't cry through the pain of the brand, didn't look herself in full-length mirrors afterwards, didn't leave the house without long sleeves and a well-crafted mask of resilience, of happiness, of bravado. Because she was special. She had been chosen by the Dark Lord, she had been given a task to save her family's name.

It was a badge of honour. She'd believe that if she kept reminding herself of it.

\--

The Vanishing Cabinet was a problem that eluded her, eating at every one of her spare waking thoughts -- and many of her unconscious ones, too. She dreamt some nights it was done, that Dumbledore was dead and she was home with her parents and things were _okay_.  
But dreams didn't make it real. Action did.  
It served her no good to dwell on what could be for any reason other than to motivate her to continue.

The abandoned bathroom was one of her favourite breakdown spots -- it wasn't like she was safe to do it in the dorms. She was never disturbed, there, and didn't have to walk quite as far as she did to get to the Room of Requirement -- needed space away from the source of her stress.  
Myrtle was never any help, but at least she was dead. She had no real stake in blabbing Draco's business to others, not like the living -- and Draco suspected she may have just been thankful to have someone willing to speak to her at all, even if it was a blubbering mess.

At least, it _was_ one of her favourites, until Potter proved quite quickly that the damned bathrooms weren't as safe as she'd thought, and Merlin help her, the agony, the cruelty he inflicted on her. Wasn't tearing her family apart bad enough? Did he have to tear into her flesh, too? The scars were thin, and only visible if you looked too long, but that was beside the point. Did he have any clue how much trouble they could cause her down the road? If she made it through this, if she got out the other side of this -- what man would want her, then? Ribbons cut around her flesh, a damaged work of art. Only another child of a Death Eater, or at least a sympathiser to the cause would have her; someone who understood why, willing to look past that, to see the value of her actions. Or maybe someone who hated Potter just as much as she did.

...Actually, perhaps it would be easier than she first thought, if that was a deciding factor.

Still. It was the principle of the thing.  
Didn't matter for him, of course. He got away with having scars. Made the stupid girls think he was interesting just because he got hit with a curse as a baby. He was a boy with a story behind it; she was a girl with a wretched enemy. The scars were not the same.

She could have sworn that if her hair wasn't already so fair, she'd have started to see greys already.

\--

Her grades suffered for the first time since she started attending Hogwarts.  
She couldn't muster up the energy to care as Granger surpassed her in every single test. Didn't bother to try to match her, or best her. If she wasn't allowed to admire her for her grades, then she couldn't find it in herself to care about any of it.

It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except getting her father back. Proving her worth, restoring the Malfoy name to its former glory.  
She'd be fine. If her grades suffered, she had the fallback option of marrying someone richer, more successful. Someone who didn't care about her scars so long as she stayed modest in public. Someone she wouldn't care about if they met a tragic accident and left her their fortune. Just in case it went south, of course. And if they weren't part of the 28, it would be okay, so long as they were still Pureblood; she knew her father would keep trying for a son until her mother definitely couldn't any more.

But that was the doomsday plan.  
And she refused to resort to it until she'd given plan A all of her effort.

\--

Plans B and C didn't quite work either, but those were simple enough to barely be distractions from the work on the Cabinet. Cursing an amulet? Child's play. Poisoning mead? She worked on that during class without skipping a beat, even with that horrid Slug's ever-watchful eye on her.

The fact they failed still upset her a little, though, despite feeling like they were too simple to be the solution; she had let herself fall asleep dreaming that maybe, possibly, they'd do the trick faster than expected and she'd be free, without having to every truly dirty her hands. If she wasn't in the room when Dumbledore died, she had an alibi -- or, at least, time to pin it on someone else before they figured it out.

\--

Aunt Bella helped her with Occulmency, and it did not foster any strong feelings between them. None positive, at least -- couldn't find any trace of the wonderful woman she'd been told stories about by her parents. Had Azkaban withered more than just her beauty? Had it eaten every last ounce of her empathy, humanity?  
She was brutal. She never raised a hand to Draco because she didn't need to, her words sharper than Potter's curse had been. She identified every last insecurity that festered at the back of Draco's head, poking at her thoughts, unearthing things that Draco didn't realise she'd been worrying about until they were laid bare.

The worst part was when Bella found the locked up box of admiration.  
"You think that filthy Mudblood is _smart_? _Impressive _?! She's scum! Draco, I thought you were better than this. This girl is nothing. As soon as the Dark Lord gets his hands on her, she'll be skinned. And I'll make you watch. I'll make you see that she's just a pig like the rest of them."__

____

____

She said, "Yes, aunt Bella," and that, that was the catalyst for her improved abilities at Occulmency.  
She never wanted Bellatrix to get her hands on those thoughts ever again.

When she was alone again, she wondered if maybe Bella was right. Maybe she was doing Draco a favour after all. It did feel like a weakness to think of the Mudbloods as equals, went against everything she'd ever been taught.  
Maybe if she locked it up even tighter she'd forget the key and those thoughts would cobweb over, leave her free to hate as much as she pleased. Leave her without any lingering doubts that slowed her progress.

\--

The day finally came, and she felt sick to her stomach. The elation of fixing the cabinet had long since worn thin, leaving behind the hollow nausea of impending reality.  
She hadn't ever let herself dream this far ahead. Beyond, yes; to when things were better again, when her father was free and safe and everything was right in the world, but not this moment, not the night where it all happened.  
The letters had been burnt, but she'd committed every last word to memory. She was by the cabinet as they arrived, letting them in, telling them where in the castle they were and where they had to go to cause maximum mayhem.  
(Distantly, she knew she should be feeling powerful, then. She was giving orders to long-standing Death Eaters. She had achieved so much, and her reward was so close.)  
(All she felt was helpless. This train was careening off the rails and all she could do was command the helm, see that it at least crashed to its final destination.)

And with her wand held up to Dumbledore's face, her hand shook, and she hated it, she hated every last tremor. She hated that he tried to appeal to a softer side of her that she wasn't sure existed any more, wasn't sure existed before.  
She hated that it worked. She hated that he poked at the squishy bits of her psyche and stilled her hand because she realised she wasn't going to do it. The whole year, a waste, because she couldn't, could she? She'd begged for the opportunity and taken on the mark and abandoned her studies for this moment and she _couldn't do it_.

She told him how she'd done it because maybe he'd help her. Maybe he'd take pity, maybe he'd save her mother, her father.  
It might be nice. A peaceful life. The life of a traitor, yes, but they seemed so much happier. They had nothing, no money, no status, no power, and they still laughed. They had loved ones. They got the preferential treatment, especially in this school.  
They didn't have to deal with beasts like Greyback. They didn't seem to talk about death quite so much. There were Purebloods in their ranks, and they didn't seem to fret and fear their future, they never talked about extinction.

She lowered her wand, a sense of calm, of peace, of sweet nothing finally flooding her, like warm waves lapping around her legs and pulling her in, somewhere she could float and not think and not hurt.

And then the sickly green of a killing curse shot through the air and Dumbledore's body crumpled, fell, and she would have sworn she'd fallen along with him in that moment.

The run from the school was a blur. Snape had rushed her out, and she felt herself moving, but her brain didn't process a single second of it.  
She became aware some hours later, hidden in a cramped safe house with her mother, her teacher, and her Lord.

"Say something!" the Dark Lord had commanded of her, and she tried to stammer out something, anything.  
She failed.

Snape filled in, lied for her. "She was ready to kill him, my lord, her wand was trained on him, but he blocked her--"

"Unacceptable," he'd hissed, "She should have struck him down the second she had the chance."

"She had the will. But Albus had experience that she doesn't yet. The only reason I managed is that he trusted me, he didn't think for a second I'd turn on him. Please. The others wouldn't have gained access to Hogwarts at all if she hadn't worked so hard to repair the cabinet, her will is strong."

The Dark Lord paced, thinking.  
He turned to her with a thin smile, and said, "Severus is right. You tried so hard. It should be commended."  
And she didn't quite feel like it was quite the approval he made it out to be.

Still.  
He freed her father, after a fashion; and wasn't that what this had been for? To get him back? Even if he looked haggard, haunted, even if he acted like a shadow of his former self.  
Even if he agreed to let the Dark Lord stay in the Manor, work from there.  
Even if they had fallen so many rungs down the ladder despite Draco's hard work.

No. She refused to wallow.  
Their family was back together. Recognition was secondary, at this point. And providing the Dark Lord with a safehouse, a base from which to work -- that was a high honour. That was success.

\--

Draco always thought she had a strong stomach up until Burbage.  
She'd known her, in a vague sort of way. Obviously, Draco had never set foot in a Muggle Studies classroom; but the Slytherins mocked the class often enough that they knew her name.  
Burbage herself, though; she was a sweet lady who never raised her voice, no matter how badly the Slytherins taunted her. When Draco herself had thrown snide comments her way, she just smiled, kind, and asked, "Would you like to come to my office and have a chat about Muggle-borns?"  
Draco had sneered and rolled her eyes and given a pithy comment.

But seeing her suspended above the table, hanging like a rag doll, with the Dark Lord's words ringing in her ears...  
Draco almost wished she'd taken her up on the offer.  
Maybe it wouldn't have changed anything; maybe they'd still be right here all the same. But at least Draco would have had a chance at understanding her point of view.  
She wasn't exactly sympathetic to Muggles, still; but compared to a man who fed corpses of Witches to snakes?  
It was difficult to keep believing that was okay, despite everything she'd ever been taught.

She watched, though. She watched, because if she turned her cheek, she might be identified as a liability. She might further lower her parents' position in the hierarchy.  
And if she angered him too much, there was always the chance she could get them killed too.

\--

Her constitution was tested further when she was given the orders to torture Rowle.  
She'd used Cruciatus before, of course. Been forced to practise often enough that summer she barely broke a sweat as she did it.  
It wasn't enough for the Dark Lord, though. He called out other curses, ones she'd never done before, and she had to learn quick, had to inflict new and horrifying methods of hurt on him. It wasn't like she had any warm feelings towards Rowle; he was always an arrogant sod, always towered over others, threatening them if they dared speak up against him.  
But seeing his face twist in agony, his screams echoing in the room, knowing it was by her hand, her wand--

She had to lie down afterwards, in the dark.  
In the eerie silence of the room, she wasn't sure if the cries she heard were echoes of Rowle's still fresh in her memory, or if they were new ones from downstairs; some other pitiful soul being subjected to further agony.

It almost didn't matter. Both options were disturbing if she spent too long thinking about them.

\--

The return to Hogwarts was a sweet relief from the horrors of home.  
Should she even still call it that? It didn't feel like home. But then again, neither did Hogwarts, not with the new regime in place. She had power like she'd never had before, freedom to torment anyone who wasn't Pureblood, who wasn't willing to align themselves with the Dark Lord's cause.  
She struggled to find as much pleasure in it as she would have before. They looked so beaten down, exhausted every single day. When she was to perform Cruciatus on them, there was no joy in it, though she plastered on a well-practised smile to save face. There was just a hollow numbness, weighing on her chest.

Things didn't feel quite the same without the Gryffindor trio. She found she missed it when they were her main irritants within the castle walls; missed the petty games, the insults they slung at each other. She missed deriding them for their many character flaws, rather than deriding everyone for their bloodline. She missed having someone who was capable of challenging her intellectually -- especially when she was getting handed As left right and centre simply for espousing anti-Muggle beliefs.  
It felt too easy.  
It _was_ too easy.

But it didn't serve her to dwell. She knew she had to get out of this rut, especially if this was how the world was to be from now on. If the Dark Lord was winning, she wanted to be on his side, regardless of what she believed.  
She'd seen first hand the alternatives. Maintaining a facade and perpetuating beliefs she didn't wholly buy into any more were small prices to pay for her family's continued survival.

\--

Christmas was bleak.  
The Dark Lord didn't see it as an important day. Said it was a tradition too rooted in Muggle culture to be worth anyone's time. Nobody argued for a second that they weren't celebrating the _reason_ for the date, they were just using it as an excuse to have fun in mid-winter -- because that's what it _was_. But was the point worth it, with his determination to clamp down on it?

As such, the horrors continued, business as usual. The only vague acknowledgement of the date was a finer feast than usual that evening; drinking and camaraderie between every single squatter in her own home, cheering when one of them strung a stray Muggle they'd kidnapped upside down and called him a decoration.  
That, apparently, was tolerable to the Lord.

And to her, too, evidently. Much as it put her off her turkey, protesting would only make it worse.  
" _Just smile,_ " she told herself. " _Just laugh, and act like this is okay, and it'll be over soon._ "

\--

The cold of winter got her dreaming of the beach again, harder than usual.  
Back there, there weren't screams. There wasn't blood, there wasn't the smell of corpses or wretched great snakes. There wasn't sadistic glee.  
There weren't male Death Eaters that liked to rest their hands on the small of her back, to lean in close and ask how school was going, was it better now she was being taught the truth? Did she keep the half-bloods in line? Did she want to practice Cruciatus on one of the Muggles or blood traitors in the basement? Was she betrothed yet? Or would she be interested in getting set up with their son?

She always smiled, and told them, "I'd be interested in talking about it once I'm out of school, but for now, I need to focus on my studies. They wouldn't really want an uneducated wife, would they?"  
Well, that tended to get her left alone for a while.

Long enough for her to retreat to her happy place.  
No Death Eaters.  
No potential husbands.  
Maybe her family- so long as they'd leave the blood politics behind at home.  
Just the three of them, on the beach, in the sun. A picnic, perhaps. A nice fiction book. Soft towels, freshly pressed fruit juice.

She wasn't positive she'd survive long enough to get there again.  
If he decided she had run the course of her usefulness, could she maybe convince him to send her into exile instead? Could she flee the country and escape him for long enough he'd give up looking?  
Had her parents ever told him where they holidayed? Would she be safe if she hid out there?

Well. Even if they had, even if it put her in danger to hide out somewhere obvious... At least she'd die somewhere she loved.  
It was worth considering.

\--

Come Easter, her father's eyes were sunken. He looked gaunt. Her mother's hair was greying, and she knew how much that would have hurt her normally. She didn't bother to try to hide it, no dyes, no glamours.  
They weren't coping. She already suspected as much from their letters -- always vague enough in case they were intercepted, but the tone was off.  
Was it still worth it for them? Was this really going to provide a better life? Did they feel better after killing Muggle after Muggle, so many they blended together and it started to feel more like cattle to the slaughter than taking a human life?

She didn't.  
She felt worse than she had in her whole life.

The blood that flowed in the dungeons looked just the same as hers. Smelled the same.

And when she caught Lovegood's eyes, she looked away, because despite everything -- the bullying at Hogwarts, the horrors she'd seen down in the dungeon, the pain Draco had inflicted upon her at the Dark Lord's orders; despite that, Luna still smiled at her and said, "Hello, Draco. How are you today?"

It felt like holding a knife to Draco's neck, but she detected no malice behind it.

\--

The Gryffindors arriving, unceremoniously thrown to the floor by the snatchers; she froze in her tracks.  
How many times had she dreamed of them getting their comeuppance? And here she was, given the opportunity to throw them under the wheels.

Well, there was no hope of her lying about Granger and Weasley. The others vaguely recognised them, even if they weren't quite as sure as Draco was, hadn't spent most of their days seeing their faces.  
Potter, though. He looked horrific. Like a great wart all over, and she didn't have the energy left in her to mock him for it.

Was it bravery? Pretending she wasn't sure? Or was it self preservation -- the hope she could avoid seeing another murder if they thought this ugly beast was just another ordinary Wizard?

She didn't find out.  
She didn't stick around long enough to watch her aunt hurt Granger, gladly went to the dungeons because the stale stench of suffering down there was better than hearing her classmate scream like she'd never heard her scream before, heart twisting in agony, empathy.

And yes, she resented them a little after they escaped. Stole her wand, left her defenceless and at the mercy of the Dark Lord's rage at letting them get away.  
Resented them, but couldn't blame them. Perhaps the most accurate word was 'envy'.

\--

She only got to return to school because she was warned the war was close to its culmination, and she'd be safer there.  
In retrospect, she suspected the Dark Lord knew it would go down in Hogwarts. Maybe it was less of a kindness, and more of a punishment; hope she'd get struck down by any of the resistance.

Her attempts were feeble, she knew. She fought because if he won, and it was discovered she hid, or joined the other side, she'd die. It was as simple as that.  
And if he did win, and she managed to bring him something, anything, a tiny shred of his overall victory, there was at least half a chance it would make up for letting the Gryffindors go free before.

So she hunted Potter. He'd be the best gift, he'd make up for everything.  
Alive. It had to be alive. She didn't want his blood on her hands and didn't want to take a kill that the Dark Lord had wanted for so many years.  
Not that Crabbe had listened to her much that year. He knew as well as the other Slytherins that the Malfoys were on thin ice, didn't think twice about ignoring her orders, chasing glory instead of playing safe, ensuring he'd get Potter--  
Ensuring his death.

The flames licked at her heels and they barely hurt. She felt numb.  
She wept into Potter's robes without making a sound, even in the face of this, didn't want to show weakness.  
Was their leaving her safe from the fire mercy?  
She wondered if she ought to have perished alongside Crabbe in that inferno. Seeing Goyle, distraught outside; maybe it would have been better.  
Having to beg one of her father's friends not to kill her as she tried to find a way out, somewhere to recover and process her friend's death -- having to swear she wasn't a traitor when she wasn't sure any more whose side she was on; maybe it would have been easier to just give up then.

She ran. She hid, then, because what did it matter if she died any more? It felt inevitable. If she hid, then at least she wouldn't have to see any more horrors before her end.  
But every safe spot got compromised, bodies collapsing on either side, curses flying at her, narrowly missing stunners or worse.

There wasn't a side she wanted to be on. She wanted all of this to be done, she wanted to cower and when she emerged from the rubble, she didn't actually want to know who'd won. If she survived she'd have to run away, either way this went. The Dark Lord would have her head for her failures. The other side would have her in Azkaban, which was probably worse.

But as the ceasefire was called, she lingered in the shadows.  
She had no idea where her parents were. Were they with their Lord? Were they dead, their bodies too disgraced for the resistance to move? Were they hiding just like her, hoping to avoid being killed long enough to plot their escape?

She had no idea how long she'd shivered silently in a darkened alcove, knees up to her chest, her mother's wand clutched so tight in her hands it left sharp little imprints in the palm of her hand when the Dark Lord's voice echoed out, booming.  
Announcing Potter's death.

She lingered at the back of the crowd, pulling her cloak up over her hair to hide the shock of blonde that would have identified her in an instant.

Her parents were there. They had been by the Dark Lord's side as Potter fell, so maybe it would be safe with him despite... Everything. If he was in good enough of a mood at his enemy's defeat, perhaps he wouldn't begrudge her failures.  
She didn't let her hopes get too high, which was probably why she wasn't exactly devastated that things turned so fast, too fast for her to keep up.

Later, she'd learn how Potter did it, but at the time it looked like a miracle, his body disappearing and rising from the dead, and in the commotion, she lost track of who was winning, of which side she ought to be on to come out on top.  
Her parents found her, though. Found her, and grabbed her, and took the same tactic she had the entire time.

One of the best thing about Hogwarts was always how many hiding spots it had. In peacetime, perfect to sit with friends and plot and follow other Witches and Wizards further down the social ladder, to mess with them, scare them.  
Now, though -- now, they were perfect for huddling together and holding onto one another and saying nothing, not a word. Not a sound.

They didn't emerge until the screaming had stopped. They knew the Dark Lord had fallen; both Draco and her father felt it, a pang in their arms where their Marks were.  
But they waited a while longer before they joined the others at the Great Hall, unsure whether they'd be welcome or not.  
Not that anyone paid them the slightest bit of attention, too pre-occupied with celebrations and grief mixed in bewildering measures to question them.

That was fine. She preferred it that way.


	4. Aftermath

She didn't feel relief immediately.

Fear lingered -- the winning side continued to give her family space, but there were other Death Eaters still loose, and she had no clue if they were minded to hunt her, her parents, her surviving friends.

Guilt, too, sat heavy in her chest. Guilt for Crabbe dying and her surviving. Guilt for all that had happened in her home, all the death she'd seen, contributed to.  
Guilt for the things she'd said. The curses she'd cast.

\--

When her father turned them in, he had at least given them warning.  
Reasoned, perhaps, if they told what they'd done to help the winning side, if they gave up the names of accomplices now, there was at least a half-chance of escaping the worst punishments.  
She didn't quite believe it but was in no position to protest. Father's word was gospel, especially without the competing doctrines of the Dark Lord.

It worked out, after all. They took pity on her, which was carefully calculated; dressed her up to look younger than she was, let herself cry before her hearing, and despite everything she'd done, they saw her as a scared little girl, and not as a young woman, old enough to make capable decisions of her own.  
And as she rattled out the names her father had decided were acceptable to name, shame, trade their lives for the Malfoy family, she let her voice tremble, and let her hands shake. Let the emotions she'd bottled for the past two years bubble to the surface, a catharsis that doubled as safeguarding.  
For once, showing weakness worked.

\--

Pansy managed to get away with things. She had fled with the rest, not returned when the Dark Lord attacked the school, and there was no room to try sympathisers, no reason to prosecute simply by association or Hogwarts House. And with everyone in the school being ordered to perform Unforgivables... They became situational Forgiveables.

Draco didn't blame her. In many ways, she was thankful for that. Left her with a friend that wasn't shell-shocked. Someone to talk to about the lighter things that remained. Someone who didn't mind when Draco needed to stay with her, to escape the Manor. Someone who would indulge in a little mean-spirited gossip, but knew, after everything, not to bring blood purity into it.

It was healthy, probably. Some small semblance of normality, some reminder of who they were before the war. Catty Queens, without the weight of the world on their shoulders.  
Draco wasn't entirely sure she still wanted to be so cruel, but quitting abruptly? No. That was too much of a shock to the system. She'd wean herself off it.

\--

The next spring, they were wholly acquitted and allowed to move freely again.  
Draco immediately suggested they visit their holiday home. Her father hemmed and hawed and found excuses not to-- but her mother had no time for hesitation. She wanted to be out of the country as much as Draco did for the first anniversary.

It was quiet. The whole time, they never brought up what had happened. Lucius tried, but one shake of Narcissa's head, and he stopped, mid-sentence. She understood they needed it; needed peace, time to heal. To reflect.

Draco got to sit on the beach again, toes half-buried in the warm soft sand, waves lapping ever closer to her.

Did she deserve to be there? Relaxed? Alive? Many people would argue no; herself included if she was brutally honest. She hadn't murdered anyone, hadn't succeeded in casting the Killing Curse, but she'd still facilitated so much death. Let Crabbe burn on top of the Muggles and Mud-- Muggle-borns. If it weren't for her, the battle might not have come to fruition. Every life lost that night, she could have prevented, if only she hadn't volunteered to kill off Dumbledore.

Except... Was that true?  
If it hadn't been her, Nott was just as desperate to get vengeance for his father's imprisonment.  
The Dark Lord would have just used him instead, most likely. And her father would have fallen over himself to accommodate regardless.

And on the other hand... If she hadn't gotten involved in the whole mess with Potter, would it have been possible for him to win? If her mother hadn't been so worried for her, would he have been able to fake his way back to the castle?

She watched as the waves engulfed her ankles, began threatening to swallow up her legs, and came to the conclusion that there was no point wondering about what could have been, what she might have done differently.  
It happened the way it had, and even a Time Turner wouldn't be a wise way to change that.  
At the time, she thought she was doing the right thing. By the time she had doubts, it was too late to exit safely.

And she could change how she behaved in future. She could be... more tolerant. Less hateful, at least.  
It wouldn't bring anyone back. But it was a start -- and she didn't know where else to begin but with herself, her own thoughts, own actions.

\--

It took until June before Draco found the words and the courage to pick up a pen and piece of parchment.

_"Dear Ms Granger.  
  
First and foremost, I understand entirely if you choose to burn this missive and give me no reply, though I do hope you still read it. I'm reaching out to you as my primary point of contact, as I believe you to be the most level-headed of your contemporaries; and I suspect you may understand why another woman would be motivated to do things to protect her family._

_I wish to begin by offering my apologies. I find it hard to know where to begin with specifics, as I'm aware I have been the source of great grief throughout your school career.  
I suppose I should start with expressing my regret at calling you epithets disparaging your blood status. I admit I am still not the greatest Muggle ally in the Wizarding world, and likely never will be, but my view on blood purity has been shifting drastically, even before the loss at Hogwarts.  
In pains me to admit it, but you were always a better Witch than me. You were clever, and talented, and perhaps if I had been less dedicated to ideals I no longer subscribe to, less cruel to you, we may have found some common ground._

_I cannot make up for all I contributed to during the war, but I can change things moving forward. I know you are motivated, and driven; and if you have interest in pursuing political change, I'd be quite happy to lend you funds or signatures where appropriate to facilitate that. Consider it an ongoing debt, which you can call upon when needed.  
Besides; I do recognise I owe my life to the three of you. You had multiple chances to let me perish, and did not. I am grateful for that, though I don't wholly understand it._

_I would be open to further communication between us, though I wholly understand if you never respond. I bear no further ill will either way._

_Yours sincerely,  
Draco Malfoy."_

As her owl dutifully flew off with it, she wondered how her younger self would have felt if she knew, one day, she'd be writing to Hermione Granger of all people, requesting forgiveness.  
Not good, she'd wager.

Her younger self had caused her present self enough grief, though -- enough she'd likely be shouldering it for a lifetime, so she couldn't spare too much pity for her, not on this front.  
Some, though; some compassion for the naïve child she'd been. Enough to let her adult self grow. Recover. To do better.

She owed it to her adult self to extend the olive branch. To see if, maybe, it was possible to rebuild burnt bridges after all.


End file.
